He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thick throat.

“My wife was back in the States. She was only twenty-four weeks along. Something went wrong. Placental abruption. They had to take the baby.”

My breath caught. Twenty-four weeks. The knife-edge of viability.

“They couldn’t reach me,” he continued, a single rogue tear breaking free and tracking down his scarred cheek into his graying beard. “My wife was alone in a room just like this one. The baby — Nora. She was born fighting. Just like this little bird here.”

He stroked the back of the baby’s head with a stiff, trembling thumb.

“How long?” I whispered.